


Not a love song.

by espiritus



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: All Aboard the Feels Express, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Attempt at smut, Casual Sex, Deacon rocks Von's world, Denial of Feelings, Drunk Sex, F/M, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, I was drunk so my characters are too, Non-Graphic Smut, Porn With Plot, Sexy Times, Slow Burn, Someone kill me please, Stress Relief, being awesome at sex, but why though, like stupid drunk, like stupidly slow burn, more like plot with porn, started at the bottle & now I'm here, well actually feels disguised as casual sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-03-20 15:11:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 20,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13720335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/espiritus/pseuds/espiritus
Summary: Deacon isn't the hugging type. Neither is Von. But, when they both need to burn off steam after a near-death experience, these two decide to not-hug it out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'll probably regret posting this later. So let me know if you like it, and maybe I won't delete it.
> 
> I've been taking a break from the site to focus on my OC. But, after a wild night of drinking, I woke up to find this in my drafts; I spruced it up a bit, but kept it there for 2 weeks while I deliberated over whether or not I should post. This is so far out of my comfort zone that I still can't believe I wrote it. I may or may not continue, as the amount of alcohol I need to write this stuff is likely toxic.
> 
> TLDR: Sober Me has never done smut and probably never will again, though it would appear Drunk Me has her own agenda. You have been warned!

_The subway station beneath Malden is mostly intact, though to call it dimly lit would be an oversimplification at best. Von squints, her Pip-Boy the only light in the dark as she focuses on the tunnel up ahead. She can hear Deacon and Glory behind her, though she's only half-listening to their conversation as she checks every corner, every crevice, to ensure that they're the last ones standing._

_Up ahead, there's a firefight already in progress- Raiders and synths are battling it out for dear life, body parts flying everywhere. Glory isn't happy about having to kill her people, but she gives the order anyway, and the three of them open fire on the crowd. Von can barely hear herself think over the deafening roar of Glory's minigun, but she looks up just in time to see the grenade that's been thrown their way._

_The next few minutes pass in slow motion. She jumps in front of the others, pushing them out of the way as the frag ricochets off her bulletproof vest and back toward its thrower. They're out of immediate danger, but the blast knocks her off her feet and she hits the brick wall with a sickening thud. Deacon is yelling something at her, but she can't hear him over the ringing in her ears; her head feels too heavy for her shoulders, and so she closes her eyes, the gunfire a lullaby as she fades into the welcoming blanket of darkness..._

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

When she comes to, she's in the drainage pipe under Malden, and Deacon is standing over her. His eyes are wide with concern, though there's anger in his touch as he pulls her into an upright position. "Damn it," he grunts, with a shake of his head. "What the hell were you thinking? You could've gotten killed!"

"I might ask you the same," she snipes back. "Unlike you and Glory, I've no one alive to miss me. Someone's gotta take one for the team and, if that means blowing myself up so that you two can make it out alive, so be it. Don't stand around and cover my dead ass like an idiot."

"Jesus, Whisper. We're all in this together, you know, so stop with the heroics. It's not all about you."

Wordlessly, he levels his gaze at her as he tries to light a cigarette. His hands are shaking so badly that he drops it, but Von doesn't react; instead, she picks the thing up off the ground and lights it herself, taking a long drag and chasing it with a gulp of whiskey straight from the bottle, before she hands it back. She doesn't even cough this time, which probably means she's been practicing in between ops for this exact purpose: she's mocking him, and it's infuriatingly effective.

"I saved your life. A little gratitude wouldn't kill you, I'm sure."

She smiles as the words leave her lips, but Deacon knows it's a trap. Whisper isn't stupid- she's too smart to even play dumb, so she's clearly doing this for a reason. But he hasn't figured out her end game yet, and there are many more questions than answers: If she's with the Minutemen, why is she helping him? How did she crack their code, and why did he even vouch for her in the first place? To fuck with Des, maybe, or with Whisper herself? He's not sure anymore, but it's driving him crazy.

He's pissed off now, and he makes sure she knows it as he snatches the cigarette out of her hand, hoping that the nicotine will calm his rapidly fraying nerves. Exposing enemies' weaknesses and exploiting them is supposed to be his specialty, and yet he's just been outmaneuvered and outclassed- out-Deaconed- by the General of the fucking Minutemen. She's a better liar than he is, and he hates it.

A few minutes pass in silence. Deacon draws a sharp breath, sucking down a gulp of his cigarette- it's covered in Whisper's red lipstick, even tastes like her. And, suddenly, he's imagining her lips wrapped around his cock, those lipstick smudges a perfect record of her every mouth movement...

_Fuck._

He leans back against the wall, watching as Whisper drains the last of her whiskey and cracks another bottle without missing a beat. He never pegged her for a whiskey girl- she's elegant, like a fine wine, and far too classy for that pisswater. But there's something about the way she takes it like a champ that's sexy as hell, and he wonders what other secrets she's hiding.

"Give me that."

He leans forward and grabs the bottle from her, breath catching in his throat as his fingers accidentally- or is it?- brush over hers. A smile plays about Von's lips for a moment as she pulls out a Stealth Boy and winks before disappearing from view; a few seconds later, he feels the bottle slip out of his hand, and she reappears with a wild grin on her face.

"I'll take that, thanks," she teases, her eyes flickering with mischief. "I stole it, therefore it's mine."

With enough alcohol, the tension between them dissolves quickly and easily, like salt in a rainstorm, and Deacon allows himself to relax a little. The bottle changes hands a few more times as he and Whisper use Stealth Boys to find new and creative ways of stealing it from each other until it's empty, then repeat with the next one... and the next. If Des could see them now, drunk and misusing the fuck out of Railroad supplies, she'd throttle them both. But this is between him and Whisper, and no one at HQ needs to know.

"Slow down there, girl," he laughs as knocks her over, straddling her hips and grabbing the bottle from her as he waves it triumphantly over her head. "I win. Give up now, or you're cut off."

Von cocks an eyebrow at him. "I'm done when I say I'm done."

It's a challenge. She's desperate to prove that she's still in control, though she lost that fight the second she let him pin her. Or maybe that's just what she wants him to think, because there's nothing innocent about her smile- it's as if she's gloating, because their clothes aren't even off yet and she already knows she's won. But he doesn't mind, not even as she unbuckles his belt and lightly caresses his growing erection through his jeans. It's been years since anyone has touched him like this- or at all- and every brush of her fingers over his skin is amplified by a million. It's torture, but stopping now is not an option.

Even drunk, Deacon knows this is dangerous: relationships, physical or otherwise, between agents are discouraged because they lead to messy, complicated feelings that have no place in their line of work. He tells himself it's just sex, that they both need the release and he won't get attached, but it's already a lost cause and there's no turning back now.

She wraps her legs around his waist, and he groans in protest, cock twitching with anticipation as she slowly rocks her pelvis against his. She's soft in some places, toned in others, though much of her upper body is concealed by a curtain of dark, silky hair- she's utterly striking, like a pre-war actress, almost too perfect to be real. But she's definitely real, and the way his entire body comes alive at her touch is proof of that.

"Wait, Whisper-"

The words are high-pitched and needy, as though someone's squeezed the air out of an empty blood pack. His stomach is in knots, coiled around his chest like a rope, and Von peers up at him, her eyes shrouded in the same veil of lust as his own. "That's my name," she half-purrs, half-slurs, her silver tongue obscured by booze and the heat of the moment. "What is it, darlin'? You scared? Of little ol' me?"

He's never heard her speak like this, and it's both arousing and unnerving at once. "No," he answers, the strangled gasp a last, desperate attempt to regain the upper hand. "But I have one rule: no hugging."

She nods. "Suits me."

_Goddamn, I love this girl._

It's only when he hears her laughing that he realizes he's said it aloud as well, and he immediately feels like an idiot for allowing the booze so much control over the words tumbling out of his mouth. But she doesn't say anything- instead, she reaches up and grabs the back of his neck, pulling him toward her so that her lips are at his ear.

"That so?" she teases, in her namesake whisper, as a coy smile flits across her red-painted mouth. "Well, come on, sweetheart. Lie to me again."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _she isn't fragile like a flower; she's fragile like a bomb._  
>  -rahul singh rathore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since feedback on the first chapter seems to be pretty good so far, I figured I'd sit down with some wine and attempt a second one. Thanks for supporting this little project, and here's hoping I don't get alcohol poisoning!

_Lie to me again._

Deacon nods, but says nothing as he pushes a strand of hair from Whisper's face before covering her mouth with his own. She thinks he's full of shit, which shouldn't come as a shock. But it's probably for the best, since it means he can blame it on the booze and she'll be less likely to remember- or care- when morning comes and they're both thinking clearly again.

The kiss is insistent and demanding, with lips and teeth and tongues like swords all dueling for possession of the same small space as they both struggle out of their clothes. She tastes like whiskey and blood and gunpowder- not sweet, but still intoxicating, like the badass she is- and there's a vulnerability in her nakedness that reminds him of a mirelurk without its shell. In a way, they've both shed their second skins tonight, and that knowledge only draws attention to how exposed they are.

"Damn," he pants breathlessly, running his thumb over her jawline as he inhales the scent of her hair. "This is a terrible idea."

She nods her agreement, mouthing the words _I know_ as she rests her forehead against his cheek. And, in that moment, she's not the gun-toting, silver-tongued General, or even Agent Whisper: without armour, or an arsenal full of weapons, to protect herself, she's just Olivia: tough as nails, but soft, in a way unique to _the world that was_. She isn't fragile like a flower; she's fragile like a bomb. But, instead of running for cover, he's drawn to the destruction she's sure to leave in her wake.

She's an unknown quantity and, for all he knows, an Institute infiltrator who's using him to gain access to the Railroad's trade secrets. It's a possibility Glory's warned him about before, one he's considered himself. But it isn't enough to deter him, just like Barbara being a synth never stopped him from loving her- he hasn't been able to recapture that feeling since she died, and this is the first time in all those years that he's come close, even if he has to be completely wasted to let himself feel it.

_No hugging. No. Hugging._

He presses his body against hers, desperate to close the space between them without breaking his stupid rule. She tilts her head back, exposing the hollow of her throat, and he instinctively moves to kiss her there- not hard, but with just enough suction that she squirms. When he lifts his head again, the area is a deep red, almost purple; she doesn't appear to be in any pain, though her soft whimpers are fire in his blood.

He drops his head to plant a trail of feathery kisses along her abdomen, stopping at the pink, crescent-shaped scar on her belly. She tenses, but doesn't stop him, and heat stirs deep in his core as he moves lower, tongue ghosting over her slit as it burns an infernal red against the icy backdrop of her skin. She arches up and into it, her soft keening noises bringing him closer to the edge. He's so hard it hurts, but he's determined to keep going until she's good and done- an admirable goal, however unrealistic it may be.

"Please," he hisses, through gritted teeth. "Your mouth. On me. Now."

He's not used to begging but, mercifully, she's more than happy to oblige. She moves to wipe what's left of her lipstick off first, though he shakes his head and pushes her hand away from her mouth.

"No," he almost growls. "Leave it."

Thankfully, she doesn't ask questions, but nods her agreement and reaches for his cock, which stands at attention as she slides her mouth over his head with both urgency and tenderness. Her tongue swirls in a sweeping motion, up and down, side to side; she's got this down to a science, though she's not afraid to shake things up if she thinks he's getting close. He feigns composure, fists clenched as he grits his teeth, to keep from crying out. He's never been good at this whole opening-up thing, but every flick of her tongue draws him out of hiding; she sees through it all, and isn't afraid to tell him as much when she finally comes up for air.

"Let go," she whispers into his ear as she lightly runs her nails over his shaft- an unexpected combination that makes him shiver. "Don't hold back. Just ride the wave."

She gives him a quick kiss, gently sucking on his bottom lip before she disappears again. A guttural moan rises in his throat, and he grabs the back of her head, fingers twisted into her hair like tree roots as she works her magic. If he cranes his neck just slightly, he can see the lipstick rings that mark her every stop like red rail signs. And, when she catches his eye, she smiles, lips still wrapped around his cock as she winks, turning his knees to rubber.

"Much better."

Satisfied with his reaction, she rolls onto her back and grabs the whiskey bottle from earlier. There are just a couple of sips left, and she takes one herself before passing him the rest; he's way too wasted already, but one more sip won't make a difference at this point. So he drains the last of it and tosses the bottle aside, straddling her hips as he smiles to himself because this is exactly how the whole thing started and they've finally come- pun intended, of course- full-circle.

For a second, he freezes, overwhelmed by nerves and alcohol and a million other things. He's already pushing the limits of his comfort zone by letting her get this close; what if he's forgotten how to do it, or he gets whiskey dick and can't keep it up? What if she really is an infiltrator? The possibilities are endless and terrifying, and he suddenly wishes that he could escape- just pop a Stealth Boy and bug out, pretend this never happened. But that's not an option now, because he cares about her too much to leave her hanging.

She seems to sense this, of course, and calmly talks him through his anxiety. Of course she's the voice of reason, even though she's just as drunk and nervous as he is. Sure, it's been five, ten years since he's had sex with anyone. But, if she really is over two-hundred years old, it's been way longer for her. And, while it's a relief to know that she doesn't expect him to impress her with his nonexistent athletic prowess, he's determined to try anyway.

A moment of silence passes, and she reaches for his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "You ready?"

Her voice is smooth and comforting, and he nods, as if bracing himself for impact, as she slowly guides him into her. Her warm wetness bids him enter, and his entire body convulses in time with every thrust; it's strange, being so close to another person after all this time. But he presses onward, face buried in her hair as he moves slowly in and out. She's soft and slippery, and he fits into her so perfectly that he's convinced he was never meant to be anywhere else.

This isn't how he'd imagined it would play out at all. In his mind, he'd stay cool and completely detached- throw her down and fuck her into submission, then leave in the middle of the night and never see her again. Instead, he's abandoning his composure, and his no-hugging rule, and she's swallowing the sound of her name as it rolls off his tongue . And that's when he realizes that they're not fucking at all: they're making love.

He comes hard and fast, shuddering violently as he grabs her and holds on, the first wave of orgasm slamming into him like a tsunami. A few seconds later, she follows, fingers pressed into his shoulders, and the whites of her eyes are visible as she lets out a high-pitched whimper that echoes off the walls. Her body slackens, utterly spent, and he collapses against her chest, taking a moment to catch his breath before rolling off and draping an arm across her waist.

"That was awesome."

She smiles weakly, pulling him closer as she fights to keep her eyes open. "Mhm."

Sleep comes easily after that, and the last thing he remembers is the sound of her heartbeat as the world fades to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 2 playlist:
> 
> dama, _rainy roads_  
>  halestorm, _familiar taste of poison_  
>  h.i.m., _wicked game_ (chris isaak cover)  
> recovery, _oops, i did it again_ (britney spears cover)  
>  stream of passion, _burn my pain_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Von and Deacon have the awkward what-are-we-now talk and find out that they are not on the same page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That this made it to post means I didn't die of alcohol poisoning after Chapter 2. Yay woo!
> 
> Fast travel FTW!

When Deacon finally opens his eyes, it feels as though he's been asleep for a week. His head is pounding, and he swears he's still drunk from the night before. Whisper's already gone, but she's left him a few supplies- stimpaks, purified water, and a couple of painkillers- and she must have covered him with this yellow sleeping bag too, because he doesn't remember it being there earlier. 

Once the medication has taken effect, he tries to piece together the rest of the night as he finally drags himself off the floor. Whiskey bottles and discarded Stealth Boys litter the room; his clothes are a few feet away, and it's only as he's getting dressed that he spots a cigarette butt covered in red lipstick. Just the memory of her smile, the gleam of mischief in her eyes as she glances up at him with his cock in her mouth, sends an electric current up his spine; it'll be years before he forgets that visual, and he'd give anything to relive it.

He rounds the corner and sees Whisper sitting by a makeshift fire pit. She's wearing jeans and a t-shirt instead of her vault suit, and her hair is slung back in a loose topknot as she leafs through a copy of Guns and Bullets. She doesn't look up when he enters, but sets down her magazine and takes a sip of water from the can beside her.

"How are you feeling?"

She's obviously talking about the physical things- headache, cotton tongue, dead arm or kinked neck from sleeping on it funny... But none of those things is the glowing behemoth in the room.

"Fine," he replies, settling on what sounds good as he lights a cigarette. "Listen, Whisper... We need to talk about what happened last night."

This gets her attention, and she finally turns to look at him. "I was afraid you'd say that," she replies, with a nervous laugh. "We got drunk, we banged, and Des is going to kill us because we used thirty-seven Stealth Boys. How do you propose we lie our way out of this one?"

Either she's clueless, bluffing, or both. He can't tell which, so he figures he'll be honest with her, for both their sakes. Rip the bandage off and get it over with.

"That's not what I meant. I just- I guess what I'm trying to say is that... I can't tell the truth to save my life. But, if you never believe anything I tell you, believe this: I remember what I said last night, and I meant every word. We're more than just friends, Whisper. Don't tell me you can't feel it."

No sooner are the words out of his mouth, a thick cloak of silence settles over the room. He tries to read her face, but he can't; her eyes give nothing away, and she does such a good job of keeping her expression neutral that he's convinced she worked for the government in her previous life. A few minutes pass, and she draws a deep breath before speaking again.

"I don't know what to say," she replies simply. "I mean, last night was fun, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat. Our friendship thus far has meant the world to me, but... I'm not in _love_ with you."

As she says it, she drops her gaze to the floor, and Deacon starts to panic because this wasn't in the script. If he'd had a shred of doubt, he'd have kept his damn mouth shut. But now that the words are out in the open, he can't take them back. So he goes the humour route- if nothing else, it'll cover up the fact that he wishes he could crawl under a rock and die. How could he have been so wrong about all of this?

"That's not what you said _last_ night."

Whisper side-eyes him carefully, a pained half-smile on her face. "I never said that, and you damn well know it. It's not that I don't care about you; I just... If you're up for Round Two, count me in. But my heart is- well, I can't give that to _anyone_ right now."

She immediately gets up and starts collecting the empty bottles, probably to defuse the awkwardness of this whole situation. "The Stealth Boys," she suddenly blurts out. "How are we going to replace them? I have the caps to buy new ones, but these are the Railroad-branded kind. If I buy a few, you think we can paint the insignia onto them ourselves?"

It's obvious that she's trying to spare his feelings by diverting his attention to something else. Deacon knows he should take the bait, just accept that last night meant something very different to her, and move on. Anything he says is just going to make the whole thing worse, but he keeps digging because it's what he's good at. 

"So, are you gonna keep ignoring the fact that what we did meant something to me or what?"

In response, Whisper stops just long enough to shake her head. "I heard you," she says, with a sigh. "But you've already made your point, and I've made mine. If I had known you felt that way about me, I wouldn't have let it get this far, but we can't take it back now. Not that I'd want to, of course. I just... I'm sorry that I can't tell you what you want to hear."

His stomach lurches uncomfortably, and he knows it's not the hangover making him sick. This is the first time he's opened up to someone since Barbara died, and there's not enough alcohol in the whole fucking Commonwealth to make him forget how much this hurts.

"Fine. See you back at HQ, I guess."

She nods as she presses a button on her Pip-Boy. Half a second later, she's gone, and only her scent remains amid the shattered glass and silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 3 playlist:
> 
> bon iver, _skinny love_  
>  christina perri, _jar of hearts_  
>  great big world & christina aguilera, _say something_  
>  our last night, _wrecking ball_ (miley cyrus cover)  
>  passenger, _let her go_


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deacon and Glory have a heart-to-heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I started this chapter on St. Paddy's Day, I can say only that there will be another chapter of smut in the near future. RIP my liver.

A few days later, Deacon returns to HQ, amid cheers from his fellow agents. No doubt Glory's already told them that the mission at Malden was a success and, sure enough, she's waiting for him with whiskey and a smoke when he arrives.

"Hey, Deke. How about a toast to our hero of the hour?"

He shakes his head, but she doesn't take no for an answer, and so they take seats on a mattress near the escape tunnel, cigarettes in hand. "So," Glory says, pouring him a glass of whiskey that he drinks way too quickly. "Where's your better half?"

Her comment is a running joke around HQ, since he and Whisper have done nearly everything together since she joined up. He's invested so much of himself in her, in every sense, because she filled the gaping hole in his chest that's been there since Barbara was ripped from his world. Even in a room full of people, he feels her absence deep in his core, and it's the loneliest place in the world.

"I don't know. I mean... Can we just not talk about her right now?"

Glory gives him a meaningful look. "Oh, shit. Did she survive that frag hit?"

She refills their glasses and, against his better judgment, Deacon accepts. He knows he shouldn't be drinking, even if it's exactly what he needs right now; it's that or a memory wipe at this point, anything to erase that night with Whisper from his mind.

"Uh, yeah. She's alive. I just..."

The emptiness is painful, an invisible hand squeezing the air from his lungs, and he lets out a shuddering sigh that elicits a knowing nod from Glory. "Trouble in paradise?"

"You could say that."

Before he can stop himself, the words pour out of his mouth like blood from an open wound. Other than Whisper, Glory's the closest he has to a friend, though he doesn't trust her not to tell Des everything- if she does, the others will surely find out, and no one here will ever take him seriously again. But bottling it all up hurts more, if that's even possible right now.

"I'm an idiot, okay? We got wasted and things, uh, happened. What we did meant more to me than one night of action, but she doesn't feel the same, and I wish I'd never told her. So much for honesty. I guess that's what I get, for telling the fucking truth."

He sighs and sucks down a drag of his cigarette, chasing it with a sip of whiskey. It's warm and smooth on the way down, just like Whisper was. And, rather appropriately, it's going to hurt in the morning too. 

Glory shakes her head. "Let me ask you something," she says, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. "Other than you, who lies to people they care about?"

Her question makes him defensive, but he's determined not to give away his position. "Your point?"

"Do you think she's telling the truth?"

Deacon considers this for a moment. Most people lie to protect friends and loved ones from danger. But, if Whisper really is over two-hundred years old, everyone she knew is probably long gone and she has no ties to this world. She has little motivation for lying, unless the person she's protecting is herself. Maybe that blue vault suit is guarding her against more than just the elements, and so she has to be drunk to let someone get close because the prospect of doing it sober is terrifying. Maybe they aren't so different after all.

_Fuck._

The revelation hits him like a power fist to the chest. Perhaps it's unfair to dump this whole thing on her shoulders, when all she did was look out for the only person she trusts not to hurt her. She has her own back above all else, and he respects that because her reasons are probably similar to his. Indeed, it's lonely, but it sure as hell beats the alternative.

"Maybe you're right. But the damage is already done. How do I fix this?"

"Couldn't tell you," Glory says, taking a swig of her drink as she crushes the last of her cigarette with her glass. "This is between you and Whisper, and she's the only one who can answer that. Desdemona says she's been favouring your old spot, up on the church roof, so that's a start. Unless you want me to hold your hand, stop being a coward and go talk to her."

"But Glor-"

'Do it, Deke. If you wait too long, you might lose your chance."

He moves to stand, but he's too unsteady on his feet and plops back down onto the mattress. She's right, as usual, but he doesn't know that he has it in him to face Whisper- and the possibility of her rejection- yet again. Maybe he's being selfish, but that selfishness is what's kept him safe in the years since Barbara died; it's his armour and secret weapon, rolled into one. Glory probably doesn't get that, but Whisper might, because she knows just as well that the best offense is a good defense.

Glory lights another smoke and takes a gulp of whiskey, then snorts her disapproval as though she's just read his mind. "What are you still doing here?" she demands, prodding his leg with the whiskey bottle as he scrambles to his feet once more. "You asked for my advice, and I gave it to you, so get your dumb ass off the floor and go find Whisper before I do it for you. And, if this conversation just so happens to make its way to Des, it'll be your own damn fault."

The idea of this whole mess becoming public knowledge is enough to halt his internal debate, and he drains the last of his whiskey for courage before heading up the stairs to the church roof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 4 playlist:
> 
> breaking benjamin, _red cold river_  
>  downplay, _burn it away_  
>  fuel, _hemorrhage (in my hands)_  
>  godsmack, _bulletproof_  
>  poets of the fall, _you know my name_ (chris cornell cover)  
>  viasava, _new frontier_


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All aboard the feels express!
> 
> (A.K.A the one where Von's a bit of a dick because she's afraid, A.K.A. the one where Deacon projects his insecurities onto someone else, A.K.A business as usual.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carnival of Rust (by Poets of the Fall) heavily influenced this chapter; I adore that song, and it fits the mood perfectly. 
> 
> 1) crank it;  
> 2) try not to cry;  
> 3) cry a lot.

On top of the church roof, the sky is starless, and a gentle rain is just beginning to fall as Von stares into the void. Only a single lantern lights the darkness, and there's not a soul in sight... which is exactly how she likes it.

Before the war, she played the part of _good little army wife_ and hated every minute of it . But, while she's glad that her days of schmoozing and shaking hands with strangers are over, she misses Nate and who she was with him. The old Von never would have smoked a cigarette or had sex with some guy in a drainage pipe, no matter how drunk she was- not because she's a prude, but because she's loyal to a fault. And, while the old-world rules no longer apply, they remind her that she doesn't belong here any more than her outdated gold standard does.

A radgull's mournful cry echoes through the night air, masking Deacon's entrance as he makes his way up the staircase, concealed by a Stealth Boy. He watches her for a moment, breath held, wondering how someone so lovely can be so sad; she reminds him of those old poems about death: achingly beautiful, the queen of her cold, guarded sanctuary. And, like death, there's more to her than any living person could ever hope to understand.

"I know you're here," she says, without turning around. "Stop hiding, and come out where I can see you."

Her words catch him off-guard as he tries to figure out how she knew he was here. Maybe the smell of whiskey and cigarettes gave him away, or perhaps she's been anticipating this moment because she knows him better than he knows himself.

Once the Stealth Boy wears off, he wanders over to her perch and sits beside her on the roof. For a moment, neither of them says a word or glances at the other; it's a game of _whoever cares less wins_ , just like that night under Malden, and it's taking all of his willpower not to look at her. They both have their pride, and she's just as stubborn as he is, but maybe he's supposed to break first, if only to show her that it's safe.

"Whisper, I-"

"Don't" she replies, her words slicing neatly and deliberately through his own. "I already told you, I can't be what you need me to. Just give up."

She still won't look at him. But, when he touches her hand, she doesn't pull away. Her resolve is eroding, though she isn't about to let it die without a fight. So she crosses her arms and draws her knees to her chest, her way of shutting him out- she probably thinks it's intimidating, but it only makes her look more afraid.

Deacon lights a cigarette and leans back against the wall. "I don't believe that."

"Really?" she laughs derisively, though there's a quiver in her voice as she says it. "That's rich, coming from a pathological liar. You aren't even a good one. And, if you expect me to believe what you said the other night, you've got rocks in your skull. I bet you've never _loved_ anything before, other than yourself. And that's probably a lie, too."

_Ouch._

She's throwing knives, and the last one hits its mark. It's been so long since he's told anyone the truth that even he can't separate fact from fiction, and she's right: it's been a long time since he's cared for anyone, himself least of all. It's just part of the act, the entire flawed package that is Agent Deacon- this persona he created, in order to live with himself after Barbara died. It's all his fault that she's gone, because he should have fought harder to save her. And he's not about to make the same mistake twice.

"Enough with the cheap shots, okay? I get it: you're scared, and that's why you're being an ass. But it's gonna take a lot more than that, to make me give up on you."

He's definitely projecting, but he can't help it. He doesn't do vulnerability, and calling her out is easier than admitting the truth: that he's terrified, compensating for it by being a dick, and hoping that she won't give up on him, in spite of it all. If he can convince her that she's the one who's damaged, perhaps he won't have to show her how broken he really is.

"God, you're persistent," she sighs, with a shake of her head. "Why are we even still having this conversation? Leave me alone."

"Fine," he agrees, taking a last drag of his smoke before flicking the smoldering remains onto the ground below. "But, before I do that, you're going to look me in the eye and tell me that what we did meant nothing to you."

He already knows she won't do it, because she'll crumble like a burning building the second she makes eye contact. But he'll give her top marks for effort, because she's stuck to her guns thus far and that kind of commitment counts for a lot.

"There," she huffs, her mouth a firm line as she finally turns to face him. "It was nothing to me. _You_ are nothing to me. Now, please... just go."

Her breathing quickens, and there's a tear in the corner of her eye that wasn't there before. Her walls are paper-thin, and it won't take much to tear them down. 

"You're lying."

Anger flickers in her green eyes, but there's fear there as well, like a wild animal at gunpoint. It's over, and she knows it.

"Am not."

A hush falls over the city as the rain intensifies, pounding the world around them into silent submission, and Deacon sees his window of opportunity. In one, fluid movement, he grabs her by the wrist and pulls her into his lap, one hand on her cheek as his free arm circles her hips to anchor her in place. Her forehead rests against his, her breath warm on his rain-soaked skin; their lips are practically touching, and he knows it's now or never.

"Yes, you are."

Without missing a beat, he leans in and presses his mouth to hers in a desperate, possessive kiss. She offers no resistance, her entire body slackening as she leans into his embrace- an admission of defeat, if ever there was one. And it's only when she looks toward the lantern's light that he realizes she's crying.

"It's okay," he whispers into her ear, planting a kiss on her neck. "Let go. Don't hold back. Just ride the wave."

She seems to recognize his words as her own, and she nods, tears glistening on her cheeks like glass stars as he kisses her again. He prefers providing comfort to receiving it, even though he secretly wishes he could break open and pour out all of the pent-up guilt and shame he refuses to acknowledge. Maybe, one day, he'll find the courage to let her in; but, for now, keeping their closeness purely physical is safer.

For a moment, everything is quiet, their heartbeats the only sound as the rain washes away the layers of pride that they both wear like badges of honour. He unzips her vault suit, pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it aside as she fumbles with his belt. Her fingers are cold and trembling, but he lets his head fall back as the soft, insistent pressure of her hands relieves the tension building in the pit of his stomach. Heat stirs deep in his chest, and it slowly spreads like wildfire through the rest of body; as much as he doesn't want her to stop, he needs to sober up before this goes any further.

Of course, she knows what he's thinking before he even says it, and takes a moment to compose herself, adjusting her vault suit before rolling onto her back once more. "I'm sorry," she blurts out, as she stares up at the sky, raindrops mixing with the tears on her face. "I didn't mean to-"

He doesn't reply right away, instead folding her into the crook of his arm as he pushes a strand of wet hair from her face. "Don't worry about it," he says, sounding far more confident than he feels. "I don't mind. It's just that... you know, I want to do things right this time. Sober, I mean. But you'd better have more of that lipstick somewhere."

In response, she makes a soft noise that he takes for assent before silence prevails once more. After a few minutes, she picks up his shirt and tosses it at him before gesturing to the door with her head. "Suits me," she agrees, extending her arm for him to take as she stands. "Now, let's get inside before we both catch our death of cold."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 5 playlist:
> 
> art of dying & adam gontier, _raining_  
>  evanescence, _lost in paradise_  
>  exit eden, _impossible_ (shontelle cover)  
>  metallica, _the unforgiven ii_  
>  seether & amy lee, _broken_  
>  three days grace, _nothing to lose but you_


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sober sexy time gets hot, heavy, and awkward AF (because there'd be no plot if it all went smoothly).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's taken me this long to update. I was 1500 words into this chapter when I decided I wasn't happy with it and started over. Bits and pieces of that version will likely show up in future chapters, as the sequence of events is still important to the story... just not right this second.
> 
> Also, Deacon's lipstick kink is super fun to write. It's not something I planned, just an unexpected byproduct of this whole thing that I ran with. :)

Morning comes, and Deacon wakes up with a splitting headache. It's nowhere near as bad as the night under Malden, but it still feels like Glory's minigun just unloaded several rounds into his temple. Maybe he shouldn't have drank so quickly, or at all, on an empty stomach, but what's done is done.

Upon further observation, it's still dark, and Whisper's gone. She never sleeps for long and is always up before the sun, despite staying awake long after it goes down. He remembers their kiss on the roof, and that she practically carried him down the stairs afterward; he's not wearing the same clothes he was earlier, nor is he swimming in a sea of wet fabric, meaning that she took care of that too. In addition, she's left him her med kit, stocked with all the provisions needed to kill a hangover in its crib. And, when he opens it, there's a note inside.

_True freedom begins after dark. Don't fear the reavers._

Her handwriting, he observes, is a perfect match for her personality: all business, T's crossed and I's dotted, no unnecessary loops or frills. She signs only her first name- her _real_ name- and, beneath it, there's a lip print clearly made in the same shade of red as the one she was wearing when...

The memory is fucking glorious. But, instead of wandering around HQ with an awkward boner, he opts to stay where he is and attempt to decipher the message. Whisper speaks in riddles often, and she's better at it than any Railroad agent, past or current; she's an enigma, a Rubik's cube of a woman, who clearly prefers being the puzzle to solving it. And, maybe one day, he'll figure her out.

Only two things in her message are obvious: her mystery location is inside Railroad territory, and there are feral ghoul reavers nearby, which narrows it down considerably. There's the bookstore and graveyard near Goodneighbor, as well as the church en route to Ticon. All three are infested with ferals, though the graveyard is far too exposed, meaning that it's definitely one of the other two. The bookstore is closer, so he figures he'll check it out first; if she's not there, Cambridge Church it is.

Sure enough, she's not at the bookstore. She doesn't appear to be at the church either, but there's a lit lantern in the window with a note beside it.

_Look up._

When he does, a flash of blue catches his eye- she's on the floor above, using a Stealth Boy. And, when he reaches the top of the staircase, she shimmers into view; she's sitting on top of a nearby crate, wearing that red lipstick and a devil-may-care smile that turns his blood to molten metal.

"Jesus, Whisper. You almost gave me a heart attack, though I assure you I'd have died happy."

She winks, leaning back against a nearby wall as she glances at her reflection in the cracked window. "I'll take that as a compliment," she answers, with a nervous laugh. "You sure you still want to do this?"

Now that he's sober, she's even more beautiful. Her eyes are so much greener than he remembers, no longer obscured by booze or darkness, and they light up her whole face. She's so pretty when she smiles, though it's as rare a sight as clean water or a building that isn't falling apart; the lipstick is just an added bonus.

"Why? You having second thoughts?"

"Of course not," she insists, motioning for him to join her. "Just don't get your hopes up is all I'm saying."

"So long as you follow your own advice, we're golden."

Without alcohol to take the edge off, his hands are shaking and he's suddenly aware of his own breath as it accelerates to match his heartbeat. As badly as he wants this, it feels like a betrayal- not just to Barbara's memory, but also the Railroad's mission and Des' expectations of everyone under her command. But how can something that feels so right possibly be wrong?

Of course, Whisper knows something's up, and she takes one of his hands in hers. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he replies slowly, hoping that it sounds convincing. "It's just nerves, but I'll be good once we get going. Promise."

He unzips her blue jumpsuit, exposing the softness of her breasts and belly. If she could bottle her pre-war regimen, whatever it was, there'd be a lineup from here to the NCR of people wanting in on her secrets. She could have anyone she wants, and why she's chosen him is a mystery; he doesn't deserve her, and he knows it. But here they are.

"So, uh, you ready?"

"As I'll ever be," she stammers, not making eye contact. "Now, are you going to help me out of this thing or what?"

Somehow, her vault suit is harder to remove now than it was when they were drunk. But he peels it off and, as that blue fabric falls to the ground, he catches sight of a faded red bruise on her neck- the one he gave her that night. So he moves between her knees and kisses her in the same spot; her head falls back, and she braces herself against the wall for support as his mouth moves to her shoulder, her collarbone, and lower. He stops just shy of her right breast, looks up as though for permission, and she murmurs her assent.

"Don't worry," she whispers reassuringly. "I'm not made of glass. I won't break."

He runs a thumb, then his tongue, over her nipple and slides one finger into her wet warmth. Her whole body stiffens, then shudders, and she grabs the back of his neck as a garbled sigh escapes her lips. It's not a loud noise, but it sends a jolt of electricity up his spine, and he's instantly as hard as a rock. 

"Wait," she gasps, her eyes fluttering open for a moment as she pulls his shirt over his head. "Are we still doing the no-hugging thing?"

He's impressed that she remembered; she respects his boundaries, which makes opening up to her like this a lot less panic-inducing. But it seems silly now, after everything else they've done, especially since he knows he won't stick with it once things escalate. So he shakes his head _no_

"New rule. No mouth kissing."

As he says it, the corners of her lips twitch upward just slightly. "I like it."

She leans back a little further, giving his head a gentle push as he feathers a trail of kisses across her belly and inner thighs. He keeps his finger where it is, stroking her into a fevered frenzy, then replaces it with his tongue; she slides forward and bites down on her bottom lip. letting out a strangled gasp that turns his knees to jelly. Finally, she lets out a relieved sigh and her arms fall limply to her sides. She's completely still for a moment, but quickly recovers and props herself up as soon as she's breathing normally again.

"All right, my turn."

She rolls off the crate, and he takes her place on it as she checks her lipstick in the cracked window. She fumbles with his belt for a moment, then her eyes glint dangerously and she drops her head, sliding her warm, wet mouth over the head of his cock before taking the whole thing deep. The woman has zero gag reflex, and the gentle pressure of her tongue is so intense that he can barely stand it. She uses her hands, too, but it's when he feels the light graze of her teeth on the underside of his shaft that he loses his mind and reaches for her hair, the wall- anything he can hold onto- to keep from turning into a human grenade before the main event.

After a few minutes, she comes up for air, and Deacon realizes he's been leaning too far to the left. So he moves to the right, but overcompensates and falls off the crate; Whisper grabs his arm, but not firmly enough, and she goes down too, landing less than gracefully on her side. One of her arms is pinned beneath him, and their legs are twisted together like a tumbleweed in the Mojave; he's got a mouthful of her hair, and probably splinters in his ass. He had planned on using this opportunity to show her the smooth moves he's rehearsed a thousand times in his head, but she probably thinks he's a bumbling idiot with all the swagger of a super mutant on Jet. So much for not fucking this up.

Silence falls, and he's worrying that he might have hurt her when, all of a sudden, she bursts out laughing- a full-on fit of the giggles that would make anyone else question her sobriety. She's got lipstick all over her face, teeth, and hands, scarlet smudges that make her look like a painting right out of Pickman Gallery; such an overt display of emotion is so out of character for her that it catches him off-guard, but her laughter is music to all five of his senses. And, before he can stop himself, he's kissing her, swallowing the sweetness of the sound, because rules be damned.

She pulls back a few moments later, breathless and grinning from ear to ear. "Hey, that's not fair. You said no mouth kissing."

Her easy, relaxed smile is infectious, and it soon finds its way to his own lips. "Oh, did I?" he teases, the ghost of a laugh on his tongue as he kisses her again. "Well then, to hell with that stupid rule. Let's finish this."

He takes her hand and wraps it around the base of his cock, guiding her up and down until he finds the perfect rhythm. His breathing turns ragged and shallow as the knot in his stomach unravels, and he squeezes his eyes so tightly shut that tears form in the corners: it's beautiful. She's beautiful. And maybe things haven't gone exactly as planned, but the end result is the same.

"Kiss for luck," he chokes out, in a voice that's an octave or two lower than normal. "Please."

Wordlessly, she obliges, and it's clear from her slow, deliberate movements that it's just as much for her pleasure as it is for his. She's actually enjoying this, and she proves it by moaning softly around his cock; when she glances up and smiles, she may as well be dropping a match into a vat of gasoline because he knows he's fucking done. But, as much as he wishes he could just unload all over that pretty mouth of hers, it seems unfair to deprive her of the ultimate end.

"Get up here. Now."

The voice that comes out of his mouth is more like a growl, too thick and needy to be his own. Whisper looks just as surprised, but she lets him lead as he lifts her up and onto him with a strength that neither was aware he possessed until now. He keeps one arm locked around her waist and a hand on the back of her head, fingers twisted into her hair as he pulls her to him like his life depends on it. And, in that moment, maybe it does. 

Suddenly, her hips jerk forward and she cries out, burying her face in the crook of his neck as she comes. Her climax triggers his own, and he goes off like a shotgun blast- violent and unhinged, jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck twitching with every spasm of his cock inside her. A pained whimper rumbles deep in his chest, and he can't stop saying her name; letting go like this isn't usually his style, but he doesn't care enough to be self-conscious right now. 

When the tremors finally subside, he feels weak and lightheaded, like a carousel horse that's broken free of its operator and is now twirling madly in circles. There's no going back, and the surge of emotion that follows this realization is so overwhelming that it feels like he might cry. The egghead types probably have some science-y term for it, but it only matters that she's his now. Everything else is irrelevant.

As his breathing slows to normal, he tries to lift his head, but quickly discovers that this little adventure has completely sapped him of his strength. Whisper, who hasn't moved since she finished, rolls off and onto her side with a contented sigh.

"That was awesome," she murmurs, the last word barely audible. "Definitely the most fun I've had in a long time, and I hope it was good for you too."

"Yeah," he agrees, with an exhausted laugh, as he lazily drapes an arm across her waist before folding her into a protective embrace. "I'm wrecked, but that was totally worth it. Good talk."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 6 playlist:
> 
> allyria, _kiss from a rose_ (seal cover)  
>  evanescence, _bring me to life (synthesis version)_  
>  marlisa, _nothing else matters_ (metallica cover)  
>  machineheart, _shelter_  
>  within temptation, _all i need_


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The feels train is now leaving the platform, so stand clear of the doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since Deacon is a big, fat liar, there's obviously no evidence as to whether his Barbara story is or isn't true. But I like to think that it's a bit of creative nonfiction on his part- the details may be embellished beyond recognition, but the story is true at its core and he has lost someone dear to him (because who hasn't?).
> 
> Von's an introvert who dislikes talking about feelings, and her reaction at the end of the chapter is one reason I think she and Deacon would be awesome together. That she's totally cool with leaving and just doing her own thing while he works through his issues, rather than taking offense, is pretty amazing.

When Deacon opens his eyes, the sun is just beginning its ascent into the morning sky. It's only been a couple of hours, but it feels as though an entire day has already gone by because he sleeps like the dead- so does Whisper, apparently, because she hasn't moved from the position she passed out in. He blinks, thinking he must have dreamed the whole thing but, when he turns his head, she's still there.

Her face is covered in that unmistakable red, but she's clearly at peace. And, though he doesn't want to wake her just yet, he can't resist leaning over and planting a kiss on her cheek. A few minutes later, she stirs and rolls over, tucking her head under his chin as she snuggles closer.

"Oh, wow," she murmurs, stretching like a cat. "What time is it? How long have we been here? I'm starving!"

She leans over and checks her Pip-Boy clock, then reaches for her pack. The first thing she finds is a box of Dandy Boy Apples, and she offers it to Deacon, who declines, before tearing into it like a kid into a pack of gumdrops on Halloween. "Man, I love these," she chirps brightly. "Gotta eat 'em quick, though, or else they'll turn all brown and squishy."

"Careful," he teases, his arm tightening around her waist. "Eat too many, and you'll turn into a mole rat from all the rads."

"That so?" she sasses back. "Tell me, Deacon... Do you make this shit up as you go, or is there a compendium of these _alternative facts_ I should know about?"

God, she's beautiful. And, whether she's talking, smiling, or doing less-than-innocent things with it, that mouth of hers is a veritable weapon of mass distraction. He can't stop staring at it, and he's not sure he'll ever be able to look at her without thinking impure thoughts.

"A little of both, actually. But you know what's _not_ a lie? You're pretty. And your face is covered in lipstick."

She scoffs in response, but catches sight of her reflection in the broken window and smiles. "Now, whose fault is that?"

"Yours, for being hot. D'uh."

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

An hour or so later, both are dressed and Von has managed to scrub the lipstick off her face and hands. They've made up a story about getting ambushed and, in order to keep their cover intact, plan on returning to HQ separately- one through the escape tunnel, and the other through the main church entrance. She doesn't like the idea of lying to Des, but it's for the best that no one finds out just yet.

"I don't know," she admits, running a hand through her hair. "She's going to find out sooner or later. God forbid she hears rumours from someone else and decides to investigate."

In truth, Desdemona doesn't care where they go, as long as she thinks they're busy. But Von knows how she feels about close relationships between agents, and it probably won't look good if what they've done is as plain as the red stains still hiding under their clothes. As a tourist, she'd receive little more than a slap on the wrist, but Deacon has far more to lose: he's supposed to be her mentor, meaning that it's his job to do things by the book. And, while they aren't actually breaking any rules, she can't see Des taking perceived insubordination lightly.

"It won't happen, Whisper. Des knows I'm full of shit, but she'll bite if it comes from you. We'll tell her eventually, once the post-Switchboard chaos dies down, so it's not technically lying. But she doesn't need to know, at least not right this second."

Seemingly satisfied with this answer, she nods and shoves the last of her belongings into her pack. "Fair enough," she agrees, checking her reflection in the broken window one last time. "I suppose I can live with that. If it's for the greater good, surely, she'll understand that it was necessary. _Secrecy keeps us alive, you know_."

Even with the remnants of her accent, she manages to nail Des' intonations and facial expression, and Deacon smiles, in spite of himself. But it's short-lived, as the next words out of her mouth are ones that he isn't prepared for.

"By the way," she adds thoughtfully, lifting her equipment onto her shoulders. "Who's Barbara?"

Just the sound of her name sends his heart plummeting into the pit of his stomach. He's not in the mood for an interrogation about his dead wife, though it's not Whisper's fault- she's obviously gotten her intel from Des or Carrington, who both promised that they'd never utter a word of it to the other agents. And, while she does deserve the truth, it's not anyone's place to tell her as much behind his back.

"Why?" he demands defensively, making no effort to conceal the edge in his voice. "Who told you about-"

"No one," she interjects, her tone equally defensive, as she raises her arms in surrender. "What are you even talking about. I'm just curious because that's what you called me last night."

_Shit._

Her eyes are wide, like those of a wounded dog, and he instantly feels guilty for snapping at her. There's no proof that what she's saying is true, but he feels it in his core; she isn't making this up, and that somehow hurts more than the possibility of the higher-ups betraying his trust. He's not sure he wants to know the context behind any of it, and a long silence lapses before he feels brave enough to ask.

"When did I- why would I call you that?"

She glances nervously around the room, the pain in her eyes driving the knife deeper still. This is precisely why he wanted to be sober for this, since their drunken escapades under Malden would have definitely taken a turn for the awkward if he'd called her the wrong name then.

"Well," she ventures shakily. "I'm not sure how much you remember about our, er, reconnaissance mission, on the church roof. You said you wanted to sober up first, and so I took you back inside to sleep it off. I kept watch for a bit but, as I stood up, you grabbed my hand and said, _Barbara, don't leave me_. I asked around, but no one could remember an agent by that name, so I figured that... I know we haven't had the exclusivity talk yet, but-"

She thinks she's not the only one, which hurts like a bitch because he'd never dream of betraying her like that. But the expression on her face is as good as empirical proof that his story is safe.

"It's not like that," he insists, trying to breathe over the ache in his chest. "Barbara is- _was_ \- my wife. But she's dead, and it's all my fault. I made some bad decisions that got her killed, and I don't want to be the reason you get hurt."

Saying the words aloud hurts just as much as thinking them does. He'd been hoping to avoid this conversation at all, at least until she's been around long enough that it won't scare her away. She's the best thing that's happened to him in a long time, but she's made it clear that she doesn't do feelings, and the thought of losing her over this is like being sucker-punched in the gut. Is it too much to hope that she won't run? 

Though she doesn't react, she can't hide the mounting concern in her eyes. "Damn," she says, shifting her gaze to the floor momentarily. "I'm sorry. Do you need a minute?"

Now, more than ever, he's grateful that she isn't the hugging type either. She keeps her distance, but it's obvious that she's doing so out of respect for his space and not because she's afraid. Of course, he doesn't want her to go- keeping the shame and guilt over Barbara's death to himself for this long has been exhausting, and it'll be a relief to finally confide in someone. But she doesn't need to see him like this either- it's better for both of them that way.

"Yeah. Maybe that's not a bad idea."

In response she just nods her understanding. "I'll be over at Ticon if you want to talk about it."

That she's perfectly okay with leaving, and not at all offended, strikes him as odd, but it's a welcome change. Even Barbara used to get frustrated when he said he needed space, or took off for a few days because he's at his mental and emotional best when he's alone- it was never an affront, though that was always how she took it. But Whisper seems to get it, and her willingness to give him that much-needed breathing room is somehow more comforting than anything else she could say or do .

He watches her leave through the broken window and, once he's sure she's gone, the tears come easily. Whisper shouldn't be okay with this; he won't blame her if she changes her mind and decides that she isn't, once she knows the truth. But what if she doesn't? Maybe she'll hear the full story and still think that what they have is worth fighting for- that _he's_ worth fighting for. 

After years of keeping everyone he knows at arms' length, he never imagined he'd care so deeply for another person again. He's convinced that he's unlovable, his heart as cold and dead as Barbara in her grave. It won't be easy, but perhaps it's time to accept that someone loves him in ways he's never loved himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 7 playlist.
> 
> all that remains, _what if i was nothing_  
>  delain, _suckerpunch_  
>  i prevail, _lifelines_  
>  poets of the fall, _war_  
>  the pretty reckless, _just tonight_


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Looks like the feels train made a wrong turn and ended up back at the station. Please do not jump onto the tracks. Kthanks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Underneath his charismatic persona, I can see Deacon being a total wreck when it comes to relationships- very insecure, suspicious, and in need of constant validation from whichever poor person is brave enough to take on all of his baggage. But Von has a lot of those same issues, so I think these two were made for each other. :)
> 
> This chapter changed direction a few times and ended up being way longer than I planned. I had originally considered splitting it into 2 parts for length, but ended up leaving it as is, because that's what felt right.

Some days later, Deacon wakes up amid a sea of whiskey bottles, with puffy, bloodshot eyes and a nagging sense of self-loathing. He remembers only that he drank far too much and stared down the barrel of his own pistol for an hour before passing out on one of the pews, and a behemoth may as well be sitting on his head because his skull feels like it's about to crack open.

It's been a few days since Whisper left for Ticon, but he doesn't feel brave enough to show his face just yet. She hasn't been back since that day, meaning that she's either forgotten about everything that transpired here or simply doesn't care to deal with the mess. It wouldn't really come as a surprise, after the truth about Barbara came out; he would have told her eventually, but she wasn't supposed to find out like this.

With Whisper and her well-stocked med-kit nowhere in sight, he rummages around in his pockets for something to take the edge off. He's all out of stimpaks, but there's a vial of Med-X, which will work until he has a chance to resupply; once it's taken effect, he heads for Ticon, figuring that he'll summon his courage on the way over. When he arrives, she's not there. But High Rise, who's standing on the staircase with a couple of new rescues, spots him and comes over to say hello. 

"Deacon, that you?" he exclaims, holding out his hand. "Man, you look like shit. How long has it been since you slept?"

He's trying to be funny, and he gets full points for effort. But Deacon isn't in the mood for humour, and so gets right to the point. "I'm looking for Agent Whisper. She told me she'd be here. Have you seen her?"

"Whisper? Yeah, she came through here, but that was a few days ago. She left this for you- maybe give it a listen."

It's a holotape, perhaps with another cryptic message as to her whereabouts. Deacon thanks him and heads deeper into the basement- there's an old terminal on one of the lower levels that will serve as a holotape player, and that no one will come down here to bother him is just an added bonus. When he reaches his destination, he slips the tape into the terminal and presses Play.

"Hey, it's me. If you're hearing this, we missed each other- it's a long story, but I promise I'll explain everything when our paths cross again. Whisper out."

The tape clicks to a stop, but he presses the replay button and closes his eyes, imagines she's here right now. Hearing her voice is the audio equivalent of having his heart cut out, because he knows he should have been here sooner and this is the universe's way of kicking him while he's down. Whisper is worthy of so much more- someone who doesn't lie to her or push her away, who doesn't make her feel like scum for being a decent human being. That day at Malden, she saved his life and Glory's. But he gave her shit for it because, after what happened to Barbara, death is kinder than what he deserves and she stole it from him.

There's no way she's okay with this- no sane person would be. And, if she is, either she's blind, stupid, or has a hidden agenda. One doesn't simply _forgive_ the kinds of things he's done, at least not without some sort of fine print; there has to be an explanation for why she wants him to think that she's willing to look the other way.

He listens to the tape at least five more times before returning to the upper level, where High Rise informs him that they're all out of stimpaks and that Bunker Hill should be able to spare a few. But, while he'd rather battle a deathclaw with a stick than talk to other humans, refusing would make it obvious that something's up. So he takes the job, and the shortcut, hoping that he doesn't run into anyone he knows.

Once he gets there, he heads straight for the settlement's doctor. Thankfully, Kay's not much for conversation either- she even gives him a discount on the stimpaks for not talking her ear off. But, just as he's about to leave, he catches sight of a caravan guard near the doorway to Stockton's outfit- their pickup point for synths in need of transport. She's not one of their usual runners, and most of her face is covered by a black skull bandana. But it's only once he gets a better look at her eyes that he realizes who she is.

"Uh, hi. Do you have a Geiger counter?"

She nods, tugging the bandana downward to reveal the red-painted smile he's come to associate with all kinds of good things . "Mine is in the shop," she replies, inclining her head in his direction. "You found me. I was beginning to think you'd never come."

"I'm sorry it took so long. I just- it's complicated."

But she waves her hand dismissively, motioning for him to follow her as she makes her way toward the gate and out of the settlement. She's quiet for most of the journey, though it's not an angry silence- instead, it's comfortable, like she's completely at ease in her own head, and he's content to just be near her. There's no pressure on him to carry the conversation, and that's just fine.

They wander for a while, eventually ending up near Boston Common. Whisper opens the door to an unmarked building nearby and, once inside, plops down on a nearby stool as Deacon takes stock of his surroundings. This place looks like it must have been a speakeasy of some kind, with high counters that society's best once sat at, sharing stories of war and woe as they drowned their sorrows in drinks with names like _Green Dragon_ and _Between the Sheets_. There isn't much of that going on these days, but at least they won't be bothered, since most would-be intruders are too afraid of the nearby pond- and its occupant- to set foot in the Common anyway.

For what feels like an eternity, neither of them breathes a word, and the only sound is the soft music wafting from a jukebox in the corner. _End of the World_ by Skeeter Davis- which Barbara used to sing, whenever she was washing dishes or folding laundry- is playing; ordinarily, he'd turn the radio off as soon as he hears those opening chords. But everything hurts, and he can't find the energy to move and breathe at the same time because it's taking every ounce of strength he has to swallow over the suppressed sob welling in his throat. If he listens closely, he can hear her over the music... Only it's not Barbara at all.

It's Whisper. He's never heard her sing before, nor was he aware that she could, but she's actually pretty good at it. Her voice is mellifluous, soft and sweet- it's slightly lower in pitch than Barbara's, but there's almost no discernible difference otherwise, since what remains of her accent all but disappears when she sings. 

"Whisper-"

As he says her name, she seems to remember herself and stops, blushing a deep crimson. "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm not used to having an audience, but I'm sure you value your hearing, so-"

"No, it's not that. Your voice is beautiful. It's just that... Well, that song was one of Barbara's favourites, and it reminds me of... when things were easier, you know?"

She nods thoughtfully, her green eyes darting between him and the counter. "What was she like?"

"She had a smile like on those old magazine covers. Her eyes..." 

It's hard to describe Barbara to someone who's never met her, because she just _was_ \- there's no word in any language for that. But Whisper seems to pick up on it and, thankfully, he's spared having to answer.

"I'm sorry," she repeats. "I apologize for being so forward, and I hope you don't mind me asking. I just find that... Well, you already know that filling silence for its own sake isn't really my thing. But I started all of this, however inadvertently. And, since you were honest with me, I feel I owe you the same."

He's not sure what she means by it, but nods his agreement anyway, and she continues. "Once upon a time," she ventures, eyes glued to the ground. "There was a girl. She came to this city from a faraway land, hoping to create a better life for herself. Shortly after her arrival, she met someone very special- they eventually married and had a healthy baby boy, promised to love each other until death did them part. And they did, but not in the way that either of them had anticipated."

She pauses for a moment as she turns to look at him, studying his face intently. He's not sure what she's searching for, but he motions for her to keep going. And so, she does.

"One day," she continues. "Something terrible happened. Orange fire rained down from the sky in buckets, purging the world of everything it held dear. The girl and her family took refuge in an underground bunker, thinking that they'd be safe as they waited out the horrors of that hell-storm. But, instead, they were frozen in what would become their graves. And, when that girl woke from her cold slumber, she was trapped- helpless, as the man she loved was killed and her baby ripped from her. She fell asleep for a long time and, when she awoke, everyone was dead. Everyone, except-"

"Except you."

"Yes," she replies, her gaze dropping to the floor. "I watched them kill my husband, take my son. I'm the reason we ended up in that vault, and I live with the guilt every day. Trust me, I know how it feels."

Now, it all makes sense. She ran after Malden because she wanted to put distance between them, out of fear that she had somehow betrayed her late husband. The hesitation on the church roof, her delicate handling of the truth about Barbara... She gets it because she's been there.

"Shit, I'm sorry," he says, the dim light casting guilty shadows over his face. "I bet I look right the selfish ass now."

"Grief is innately selfish, Deacon. We expect the world to stop while we find our bearings, or we wish friends and family back, without regard for the suffering they endured in life. To truly love is to let them rest, but that doesn't mean you should pretend someone never existed. You have to let it hurt sometimes- it's the only way you'll survive. But life goes on: the sun keeps on shining, birds keep on singing... and you know how the rest of the song goes."

She's way too good with her words. It would be one thing if she relied on chems or booze, like every other person out here, but she can sweet-talk or strong-arm a person into doing her bidding without really trying. If anyone can draw blood from a stone, it's her, and that's exactly what she's doing; there's always a method to her madness, and this is no exception.

The final chords of the song come to a close, and he lets out the shaky breath that he's been holding the whole time. A shuddering noise that sounds almost like a growl rises up in the back of his throat, but he shoves it back down inside; he doesn't do vulnerability, but she seems determined to claw it out of him. 

"Let it hurt," she repeats, smooth as a knife through flesh. "Don't hold back. Just ride the wave. And, if you need me to leave, that's fine. I can-"

"No," he chokes out, almost pleadingly. "You don't have to go. Please, don't."

In the ten or so years since Barbara died, Deacon has made a point of keeping the pain to himself, because feelings are messy and complicated. But, for the first time since then, someone gets it: he's no longer alone, and the relief is just as intense as the years of pent-up emotion- fear, guilt, shame. There's anger too, of course- at her, for leaving him behind, and at himself, for letting it happen.

"It's okay," Whisper says, holding out one of her hands. "You're safe here."

So he leans into her, forehead resting against her cheek, and lets her hold him as it all bleeds out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 8 playlist:
> 
> elysion, _made of lies_  
>  evanescence, _where will you go_  
>  halestorm, _i'm not an angel_  
>  skillet, _whispers in the dark_  
>  xandria, _save my life_


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The feels train runneth over everything in its path. Also these two suck at feelings, but god bless them for trying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amy Lee's voice always inspires feels, but Hi-Lo had the biggest influence on this chapter. CRANK IT. <3

Silence hangs in the air, heavy and thick as a steel curtain. Von leans awkwardly against the barstool, one arm slung over Deacon's shoulders as she tries her best to support their combined weight. She doesn't usually touch people without their express consent but, as long as she stays away from vulnerable places like his face and neck, she figures it's probably safe enough.

She's not great with feelings. Most of the time, she can't or won't deal with her own, and she has yet to shed a tear for Nate- not because she doesn't want to, but because she can't. And, as much as she wishes she could, this is not her moment; Deacon needs this more than she does, and she's not about to steal it from him. Only time and tears can mend a broken heart, though she'd give anything to make it stop hurting. Only she doesn't know how.

Before the bombs fell, the sentimental aspect of relationships was Nate's forte: a charismatic extrovert, he was always content to shield her while she remained safe in her secure little bubble of logic. And, now that he's gone, she finds herself trying and failing to fill both roles, because logic and emotion aren't supposed to coexist.

"How are you feeling?"

The last time she asked, under Malden, she was referring to physical symptoms- pain she can fix, because it's tangible. But this isn't a hangover or a broken bone, or even radiation poisoning; all the stimpaks in the world won't heal these wounds, and there's no miracle button to wipe them from existence. It's her responsibility to protect her own, and she feels just as helpless now as she did watching those Institute bastards rip her family apart before her eyes. Fuck them, and fuck whoever's responsible for Barbara's death, because Deacon doesn't deserve this. No one does.

He doesn't respond right away, but she doesn't push him for an answer. "Strange," he finally says, his voice raw and trembling. "Really strange. Empty. Like I could sleep for a month, and still be wrecked. But I'll be fine, if that's what you're asking."

His voice breaks on the last word, and Von feels a piece of her heart shatter with it. He doesn't know that she'd gladly trade places with Barbara, if it meant that they'd both be reunited with their loved ones: Deacon would have his wife back, and she'd be cold in the ground with Nate, just as it's meant to be. But that's not how the world works, and they're both here now, united in their brokenness, whether they want to be or not.

"Does it ever stop?"

For a moment, she's not sure she should answer. It doesn't make sense to guarantee an outcome that she has no control over, but he's looking for reassurance, and she wouldn't be doing her job if she didn't at least try. "I don't know," she responds tentatively. "Based on what little experience I have, it might never stop. But I can promise that it won't always be this hard."

She has to admit that she feels a bit better after saying the words aloud. There's a difference between lying for its own sake and telling a few _alternative truths_ to protect someone she cares about. But, if she says it often enough, perhaps she can convince them both that it will, in fact, get easier with time. 

"So," she hears him say, his voice muffled by her hair. "I don't know about you, but I could fall asleep right here. Uncomfortable, sure, but it beats the hell out of being surrounded by a bunch of people back at HQ. The only person I want to see or talk to is right here."

"Then we stay here. When we get back tomorrow night, I'll tell Des you got hurt and we took care of it."

Deacon manages a smile. "I thought you didn't like lying to the boss."

"I don't. But being intentionally vague isn't lying. I am responsible only for my words, not her selective interpretation thereof."

"Clever," he admits, with a weak laugh that sounds just as hollow as they both feel. "Maybe you should change your code name to Loophole or something."

Von manages a soft chuckle of her own before silence takes over once more, though it's another few minutes before she musters up the strength to extract herself from his embrace. She's exhausted, but autopilot carries her through the motions as she quickly sets up a makeshift campsite, and she flops onto the bedroll as soon as she's done, her back to the wall. Of course, she doesn't want to go back to HQ yet either- after the day she's had, she needs to recharge and just be Olivia for a moment before jumping back into her new life as Agent Whisper.

She closes her eyes for a minute, but opens them again when the ancient wood flooring shifts beneath her and she's suddenly aware of Deacon's presence. One arm slides around her waist, pulling her close as his free hand strokes her hair- she remembers Nate doing the same when Shaun was born, and she forces a yawn to hide the tears that prick the corners of her eyelids at the memory.

"Hey, Whisper... You okay?"

If she says _yes_ , or any variation of it, she'll definitely be lying, but she'll also be protecting someone she cares about from the ugly truth. He doesn't need to know how messed-up she is, especially when he's relying on her to be strong for both of them, though she suspects he doesn't buy a word of it.

"Fine."

Of course, he knows she's full of shit. "Look at me," he says, tilting her chin upward to ensure that she does just that. "I suck at this whole opening-up thing just as much as you do, but I wanted to say thanks, for taking care of me. I'm just sorry that you had to see me at my worst."

She opens her mouth to respond, but he quickly covers her mouth with his fingers as he plants a tender kiss on the top of her head. "Anyway," he continues. "I hope you understand that I'm a safe place for you too. If you ever need somewhere to lay your worries, my shoulder is yours. Promise."

A hush falls over the room as she retreats into her own head, where it's safe and there's no pretending to be okay, or anything else she isn't. Instead, she tries to focus on his breathing, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest a much-needed comfort as she leans into his embrace. Since waking up in that icebox, it's the safest she's ever felt with another person; there's no need to justify her confusion, guilt, and all of these other unknowns that she's still learning how to deal with, because he knows that healing is messy and never as glamorous as those old books and movies made it out to be.

"Whisper, I..."

She can't make out what comes after, other than a muffled stream of curses, though his face is as red as a fresh bloodleaf. "Sorry about that," he says, resting one hand on top of hers. " I guess I'll just come out and say it. Whisper, I... _I'minlovewithyou_."

He blurts it out so fast that she's not sure she heard correctly. But, when he says it again, there's no mistaking those words for anything else. 

"I'm in love with you," he repeats, calmer this time. "I know it's asking a lot, especially after... Well, I don't deserve you being okay with any of this. I won't blame you if you're not. But you're the best thing that's happened to me since..."

He trails off and bows his head so low that his forehead rests against hers. "Come on, Whisper," he insists, almost pleadingly. “Say it back. I know you want to."

"Of course, I want to. But what about Barbara? You still love her, right?"

"Yes, and you still love your husband. No need to lie and tell me you don't, because I would never ask you to do that. But there's no rule against loving more than one person. Even if there is, it probably doesn't cover scenarios where one of them is dead, and I'll be damned if I let some pre-war code stand between me and the only thing in this fucked-up world that's worth living for. If you don't feel the same, just say so... But I know you do, because you wouldn't be here, if you didn't."

A few minutes pass in complete silence before she nods her agreement and, though her mouth forms the words, no sound comes out. But, to Deacon, it's proof enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 9 playlist is all evanescence  
> (*=synthesis reworking of a track from a previous album)
> 
> hi-lo (ft. lindsey stirling)  
> give unto me  
> understanding  
> breathe no more  
> disappear  
> secret door*  
> imperfection  
> unraveling (instrumental)  
> lost in paradise*  
> all that i'm living for  
> end of the dream*  
> good enough


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We got fun time incoming :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took this long to get this chapter up (hooray for chronic illness... /sarc). But I hope you like it!

Now that those three words out in the open, a few minutes pass in silence as Von and Deacon stare at each other, twin masks of confusion painted onto their faces. He doesn't know where he found the guts to tell her the truth, and she's not sure why she said it back.

It's not that she doesn't feel the same; it's just that she doubts his sincerity. The years she spent working in intelligence before the war taught her to always listen to her gut instinct- her heart is adamant that he's telling the truth, since she's always been able to see through his lies for miles and it's highly improbable, statistically speaking, that she's wrong. But, this time, she's not so sure.

"Wait," she interjects suddenly. "Don't tell me. This is the part where you're supposed to make fun of me, for being stupid enough to fall for whatever game you're playing, and give me some moralistic bullshit about how _you can't trust everyone_ , right?"

As she says it, Deacon drops his gaze to the floor, but not before she catches the hurt expression on his face. "Why would I do that?"

He sounds so genuinely distraught by her suspicion that she immediately feels guilty for even implying as much. "Forgive me," she says quickly, hoping that she hasn't done too much damage. "If I appear suspicious, it's because I don't want to make an idiot of myself."

"Fair enough," he answers, touching her cheek as if hoping to absolve her of any doubt. "True, you can't trust everyone, but you can sure as hell trust me. Maybe you don't now, but I swear to you that I'll do whatever it takes to change that. "

Von sighs, a sad smile flickering across her face, as she tucks her head under his chin. "Very well," she replies. "I want to believe that everything you've said is true, so I'll take your words at face value this once. But, if I find out you're messing with me, Deacon, you'll feel my wrath, and even your precious Railroad won't save you."

She's fiery and fierce- a commanding presence, but without being loud about it. It's what makes her such a good fit for the Railroad, also one of the things he loves most about her. And, though she doesn't wear her heart on her sleeve, she isn't afraid to take what she wants by any means necessary. She knows the Railroad's as near and dear to him as it gets, and that's why she's brought it up; she wants him to know that she means business, and that she is not a woman to be fucked with.

"Does this convince you?"

"Does _what_ convince m-"

The rest of the word disappears as he leans in and kisses her, hard. She lets out a surprised whimper, but reciprocates, practically dragging him into her lap as she leans back against the wall. His tongue slips into her mouth, and he gasps as she catches it between her teeth. It's a side of her he's never seen before and, suddenly, something snaps- he unzips her vault suit and pulls it down so that her upper body is completely exposed; one hand grabs her hair and the other is everywhere else, slipping past the barricade of blue and into her soft, slippery warmth as she murmurs something that sounds like his name and a string of expletives into the crook of his neck.

"Do you say your prayers with that mouth?"

"Maybe," she answers, a glint of mischief sparkling in her green eyes as she fumbles with his belt, tugging his jeans down over his hips. "Or maybe not. But who says praying's the only thing a girl can do on her knees?"

It's both arousing and refreshing to hear her say such things. Sure, he's heard her use some salty language before, but context is everything, and hearing her- this calm, introverted woman, with old-fashioned family values- talk as though she was raised in a junkyard is possibly the biggest turn-on in the world. That, and the lipstick, because reliving their adventures the next day is easier -and more fun- with a map.

"Fascinating," he says, aware that he sounds like a child with a head-cold as every ounce of blood rushes to his face. "Care to, uh, enlighten me?"

She laughs, wrapping one hand around his cock, and her smile turns his legs to rubber. "It's more fun if I show you."

Her hands are so unbearably soft that the first stroke catches him off-guard, and he falls forward, bracing an arm against the wall behind her for support as she draws him in. She flicks her tongue over his head, a gentle sweeping motion that sends shivers through his whole body; heat pools in his belly, slowly spreading outward as he closes his eyes. A sharp, shuddering gasp escapes from behind his lips, and her mouth tightens around him for a moment before she looks up, her smile a crimson arch that glimmers in the dim light like an open wound. She has this down to a science, and he already knows it won't be long before...

A familiar pressure builds in the pit of his stomach and, before he can stop himself, he explodes like a frag grenade over an open flame. He's never specifically asked her to spit or swallow- that's her choice. But she doesn't pull away, even as the evidence of his passion spills past her painted mouth, and It's everything not to cry out as he pitches forward into the welcoming blackness. It's a few minutes before he recovers his strength enough to move and, when he finally does, he's rewarded with a kiss on the forehead from Whisper, who winks and runs her tongue over her upper lip with a satisfied smirk. 

"Well, goddamn," he pants breathlessly, clasping one of her hands over his chest as his breathing slows to normal. "I wish I had it in me for Round Two, since I kinda owe you one. Does that mean you believe me now?"

In response, she just shrugs. But, though she tries to keep her expression neutral, her eyes are smiling. "Maybe," she says, her breath hitching in her throat as he runs his thumb over her jawline. "I want to. I just-"

She trails off, her voice fading into the empty space overhead. But that she leans into his embrace, rather than away from it, is very telling. She _does_ believe him, and that's all that matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 10 playlist
> 
> breaking benjamin, _the dark of you_  
>  celine dion, _ashes_  
>  godsmack, _under your scars_  
>  lacuna coil, _entwined_  
>  leah, _a thousand years_  
>  written by wolves, _to tell you the truth_


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If the boss ain't happy, ain't nobody happy. And the boss ain't happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've ever watched an episode of House, you'll understand what I mean when I say that I imagine Deacon & Desdemona's working relationship to be a lot like the one between House & Cuddy: he's completely unhinged, and she keeps him on a short leash/occasionally lets him get away with murder because he's the best they have.
> 
> +1 for House's tagline: "everybody lies".

After his first decent night's sleep in quite a while, Deacon prepares to return to HQ. 

Whisper's already gone, keeping in line with their plan to arrive separately and avoid any unwanted attention. But her absence is a dull ache in his chest, and he can already feel the lipstick prints she left burning holes in his skin. She's too good for him, and he knows it. But knowing is only half the battle, and the other half- giving a shit- is not exactly high on his list of priorities.

He knows Des won't like this. She'll probably be annoyed that they kept it from her for this long, or that he cares about something other than work now. Maybe she'll be pissed that he's broken yet another of her non-rule _rules_. But he promised Whisper that they weren't going to lie about what they were and, if he keeps his promise, maybe she'll believe what he told her. 

She's being cautiously optimistic, and rightly so. If he were in her position, he probably would be too; she thinks that this is all a game to him, just a ploy to extract intel. And maybe that's how this whole partnership started, but he's in way over his head now.

When he arrives, Desdemona is waiting for him near the tactical map. "You're back," she says, an edge to her voice. "And in one piece, too. Whisper's version of events led me to believe that you were on death's door, but I'm glad to see that you're all right. In any case, you're needed over at Mercer Safehouse- the caretaker needs help with the newest batch of rescues."

"Where is Whisper, anyway?"

He's going for calm and collected, though his voice is neither of those things when he opens his mouth. Heat colours his face a deep red, and he hopes it's dark enough down here that Des can't see.

"She isn't here," Des informs him, matter-of-factly. "She's following a lead at University Point. So I sent Glory in your place, for reasons I hope are obvious to both of us."

Her _reasons_ are far too obvious for Deacon, who nods and grits his teeth at the mention of his old stomping grounds. He definitely doesn't have the courage to go back there, stare down all those memories he'd rather forget; Whisper doesn't need to be dragged into any of it either. She has her own ghosts to exorcise. 

"Listen, Des... Can we talk? Alone?"

She nods, and they head to the back of the base, away from the prying eyes of the other agents. And, before he can stop himself, the words pour out of his mouth with all the grace of a thousand feral ghouls. 

"Whisper's not just my partner, Des. She's my... well, even we don't know what we are yet. But I suppose you could say I love her."

Out in the open, the words sound a lot stranger than they did in his head. The look on Des' face makes it obvious that this isn't the conversation she'd anticipated, and she's almost too surprised to say anything. Almost.

"I'm sure," she says, in her usual all-business voice. "I don't know who you're trying to get a rise out of: Whisper, or me. But I assure you that whatever you're planning won't work, since this is probably just another ploy to get out of your duties at the safehouse. I know you don't like it, but it's what you signed on for, and someone has to do it. So get to work, and don't come back until all the synths are accounted for."

Deacon sighs. "I'm dead serious," he insists, even taking off his sunglasses to prove as much. "But she didn't believe me when I told her, so I promised her I wouldn't lie to you about this. I know she doesn't trust me, and that's why we're having this conversation."

"Is that so?" she says finally. "We are on the brink of war, with the Institute and that blimp full of Brotherhood assholes breathing down our necks. I'm not in the mood, nor do I have the time, for your games. But, in the off-chance that you _are_ telling the truth, I need you to listen, and listen good: Whisper's a powerful ally and a huge asset to this organization, but she isn't one of us. Her loyalty is to her people, not to me... and certainly not to you."

As she says it, his expression changes to something he's not sure of. He feels especially vulnerable without his sunglasses, particularly when Des' mouth forms a disbelieving _o_. "I see what's going on here," she says. "I get that losing your wife was hard on you and, for that, you have my sympathy. Whisper's been good for you, and I figured she had her reasons for asking about Barbara. Now, I don't know which of you started this, but I expect more from you; that you've jeopardized both our mission and your lives just to fill a void is... irresponsible, to say the least."

"I am _not_ filling a void. Please, I need you to trust me on this one."

"Not a chance," she says simply, waving away his protests. "I won't allow this. In fact, I forbid it. I've been working with a skeleton crew since Switchboard, meaning that you and Whisper are two of my best people; I'm not willing to risk one or both of you getting hurt, or worse, because you're not thinking straight."

"But Des-"

"No buts," she insists. "Effective immediately, you're suspended from active duty until Carrington gives his medical blessing. And, while you're at it, think of how you're going to break it off with Whisper. Either you end it, or I will."

Deacon opens his mouth to protest, but she silences him with a wave of her hand. "Go see Carrington," she urges, one hand on his shoulder as she nudges him toward the exit. "It's for your own good. And, on that note, don't question me again."

She gives him a meaningful glance, and they part ways. But, instead of following her orders, he grabs a few supplies from Tinker Tom's stash and heads for the escape tunnel. He doesn't need a shrink; the only person he wants to see or talk to is Whisper, and she's in the one place he doesn't want to go. But, if he can get to her before Des does, it might just give him the leverage he needs to convince the boss that she's wrong.

He isn't ecstatic about this being the only option. But, if that's what it takes, then University Point it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 11 playlist:
> 
> disturbed, _overburdened_  
>  finger eleven, _therapy_  
>  lacuna coil, _our truth_  
>  massive attack, _teardrop_  
>  the pretty reckless, _nothing left to lose_  
>  stream of passion, _earthquake_


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome aboard the feels plane! This is your captain speaking... It's gonna be a bumpy ride, so please stow all luggage in the overhead compartment as we prepare for takeoff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My initial draft of this chapter ended up being over 2000 words, so I separated it; most of what was cut from 12 will appear in 13 and 14.
> 
> Assuming that even part of the Barbara story is true, there's no way Deacon doesn't have PTSD. And, because of Nate's military service, chances are Von already has experience with this sort of thing and would be able to talk someone through an episode without losing her cool.
> 
>  _Blood-Ridden Skies_ by (by Hanging Doll) heavily influenced this chapter. It's a beautiful song, so I definitely recommend giving it a listen.

The still-smoldering remains of University Point are a sight to behold, and Deacon's heart is in his throat as he approaches the ruins. The air is heavy with memories, and the scent of blood still hangs overhead like a thick cloud of smog that chokes the oxygen from his lungs. He never thought he'd find himself back here and, right now, he wishes he was anywhere else. Time to find Whisper and get the hell out before things get ugly.

He wanders through the ruins, searching for any sign of her or Glory, but finds himself drawn to a small cabin on the outskirts of the settlement- the one he and Barbara used to live in. The door gives way easily and, as he pushes it open, he's transported back in time to the day the world as he knew it ended.

_Deacon drops to his knees and scoops Barbara's limp body into his arms.They're both covered in blood, and it's clear that she doesn't have much time left, but he takes off his t-shirt and uses it to apply pressure to the gaping wound. "Stay with me," he orders, even though they both know she won't. "Goddamn it, Barbara. Don't you dare fucking die on me. Everything's gonna be fine. You're gonna be fine."_

_The Claws' leader- asshole named Killer- laughs coldly, coughs a mouthful of blood that splatters Deacon's face and neck as he gasps his dying breath through a hole in his throat. "See you in hell, synth bitch."_

_It's as if the world is closing in- cold and damp, the taste of iron in the air an invisible noose that makes it hard to breathe. Barbara reaches up and touches his cheek, leaving bloody fingerprints that burn his skin. "I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice cracking on the last word. "I... I didn't know."_

_"It's okay," he tries to reassure her, on the verge of tears. "I don't care if you're a human, a synth, or even a fucking Protectron. I love you, and I need you to stay with me."_

_Barbara smiles, her face lighting up for one brief moment as she rests her head against his chest. "I love you too," she croaks, her breath shallow and ragged with pain. "Hold me."_

_The final words are barely a gurgle as blood bubbles in her throat and, just like that, it's over. All five Claws are as dead as Barbara now, but there's no comfort in any of it. Fuelled by rage, Deacon stabs the guy at least a hundred more times- he could do it a thousand times, and it wouldn't make her any less dead. She's gone forever, and nothing will bring her back._

The smell of death is everywhere, but it's the metallic taste in his mouth that brings him back to the present. And that's when he realizes that he's bitten down on his bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood. A wave of nausea washes over him, his chest tightening with every breath. But, suddenly, a shadow catches his eye- one that looks strikingly familiar.

"Deacon, this is Whisper. You're in a cabin at University Point, and you're safe. Nod if you can hear me."

She appears, seemingly out of nowhere- like an angel, perhaps, or the first shards of splintered sunlight after ten years of rain. Her voice is gentle, like Barbara's used to be, and just her presence is a much-needed relief from the pounding in his head. 

"It's all right," she continues. "I'm here. Glory's here. Everything's going to be-"

"Hold me."

She looks confused for a moment, but does as she's asked. She keeps her arms firmly around his waist for several minutes, only moving to pull and open a can of purified water from her med kit.

"Here," she insists, pressing the container into his other hand. "Take this. I'm not going anywhere. I'm here, and you're safe. Squeeze my hand if you know who I am."

When he does, she nods her approval and follows this question with several others- _who are you_ , _where are we_ , _what year is it_. She's clearly done this before; if her late husband was in the army, as the intel he dug up suggests, it makes sense that her preparedness skills are honed to a razor-sharp edge.

By the time his heartbeat slows to normal, he's exhausted. The rush of panic is replaced by a calm, stoned feeling; Whisper plants a kiss on his forehead, and he tries to focus on how soft her skin is- the way her hair obscures parts of her face, like a black veil, and her green eyes seem to glow in the dark- as if committing her to memory, since it might well be the last chance he has to be close to her. 

"Don't let go."

She squeezes tighter. "I won't."

He knows that what he's about to do will hurt her, shatter what little trust they've managed to build since Malden. She's going to assume that Des' disapproval is just an easy out, and that he never meant a word of what he said in the first place, even though nothing could be further from the truth. But he figures he'll beg for forgiveness later, when he's not still reeling from the shock of losing Barbara all over again.

After a few minutes of struggling to keep his eyes open, sleep finally comes, and her face is the last thing he sees before the darkness swallows him whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 12 playlist:
> 
> cradle of filth, _her ghost in the fog_  
>  eleine, _hell moon/we shall never die_  
>  hanging doll, _blood-ridden skies_  
>  h.i.m., _funeral of hearts_  
>  we are the fallen, _bury me alive_


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Per Des' orders, Deacon tries to end things with Von, but can't bring himself to go through with it when her response is not what he expected.
> 
> (a.k.a. "Feelings: You're Both Doing It Wrong")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The feels plane is about to crash. Please return your tray tables to their upright positions.

A couple of hours later, Deacon opens his eyes. His vision is still hazy, and shadows dance across the walls, as though alive; but, as his eyes adjust to the dim light, he can see Whisper and Glory sitting by a campfire they've made. They aren't in the cabin anymore, and he suspects that they're no longer at University Point either- the girls must have carried him here, which means that they can't have gone far.

"Wha... Where are we?"

As he says it, Whisper looks up, and Glory gives her a knowing nod as she makes her exit. "We're at the Castle," she says, gesturing to the blue flag on the wall. "Home of the Minutemen- _my_ home. It would have taken days to get you back to HQ, so I figured we'd bring you here, in case you needed medical attention. We don't have to talk about it, but... I was worried about you."

She sounds so sincere that it hurts to think about what's coming, and the ache in his chest is so intense that he nearly doubles over in pain. He's furious with Des, for putting him in this impossible position, and at himself, for not having enough of a backbone to stand up to her. Nothing is going to soften this blow, and he deserves whatever comes next.

"Des wants me to end it, Whisper. She says that, if I don't do it, she will."

Whisper doesn't answer right away, though her eyes say it all before she opens her mouth. "Wait, so... you're breaking up with me?"

"Not exactly," he replies carefully, aware that he sounds like a blithering idiot. "I mean, I guess. This is gonna sound stupid, but hear me out."

He's rewarded with a confused look, though he's not sure whether spelling it out for her is the best or worst idea he's ever had. "It's like this," he continues, dropping his gaze to the floor. "I know you don't like lying to the boss, and I thought that, if I told her about us, you'd trust me. Instead, I'm suspended because Des thinks I'm endangering our mission and our lives over what happened to Barbara. So it's either break it off or... she didn't say what she'll do to me if I don't, but I'm not sure I want to know."

He's breathing hard now, the weight of those words pressing down on his chest like a sledgehammer. Waiting for her to speak is torture, and he already knows that he won't like her response.

"I should have known," she says at last, her voice surprisingly calm. "I get it: it's me, or them. This is always how it was going to end, wasn't it? Fine. just do whatever it is you came here to do, and get it over with."

He wishes she'd get angry- call him a lying sack of shit, throw something, storm out and slam the door in his face- because ambivalence hurts in ways that tears, or even a backhand, never will. That she isn't willing to fight him on this means that she's already given up. And, if she's folding this easily, then perhaps he's just as unlovable as he's always believed.

"Why? Because you don't have the guts to do it your damn self?"

He's projecting again, with the hope that being a dick will provoke her into abandoning her calm, collected façade. He isn't proud of resorting to such underhanded tactics, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

"Oh, that's real nice, Deacon," she retorts, though her lower lip trembles and she sounds far less confident now. "I can't say I'm surprised, but it's not your fault: it's mine. I trusted you."

Though she hides it well, she's on the verge of losing her cool. It's a delicate dance, but he hopes that he can push her to the edge without going over. He's desperate for her to react, because it will accomplish two things: one, it'll be easier to end it if she hates his guts; two, if she does get angry, it's proof that she cares and he's not the unlovable disaster he feels like right now.

"I see," he continues, preparing to deal the final blow- projection at its finest. "You don't want to let go because you're too scared to be alone."

_Come on, Whisper. Get mad. Scream. Hit me. Anything but this._

"How dare you," she snaps, a sob creeping into her voice at last. "You've made an idiot of me, for the first and last time. You can stay here until you've recovered enough to return to HQ. Then, _you_ can explain to Desdemona why she won't be getting her courser chip after all. And don't come after me, because I'll make you regret it."

She turns to leave, and Deacon knows he has about two seconds to make a decision. Staying put is the coward's way out. But, if he lets her walk, he'll never see her again, and he'll have only himself- not Des, or the Railroad- to blame for it. 

_Screw your pride, you spineless coward. Tell her how you feel, before you lose her forever._

"Whisper, wait!"

Somehow, he finds the strength to stand and follow her. He grabs her by the wrist and, though she resists at first, it doesn't seem like she's really trying. "I'm sorry," he insists, pulling her into a firm embrace, keeping his arms locked around her shoulders so that she can barely move. "I just- well, you being so calm about all of this was making it harder for me to go through with it, and I wanted you to hate me, so I wouldn't feel as guilty for following orders." 

He reaches over to wipe a stray tear from her cheek, though she leans away from him and buries her face in her shoulder. "Don't touch me," she warns, though her voice betrays her as it breaks on the word. "If any of that's true, you got what you wanted and there's nothing left for us to discuss. Just let me go."

She's sobbing openly now, angry tears spilling down her cheeks, each one a knife in Deacon's heart. "No," he insists, pulling her toward him as he holds her tighter. "I won't do it, Whisper. I can't. But I need your help. Pulling a deathclaw's teeth is easier than changing Des' mind, especially where rules are concerned. But, if anyone can do it, it's you."

"And if I can't? What about your _orders_ , your precious Railroad? I thought-"

"To hell with that," he interjects, swallowing over the lump in his throat. "I _am_ the Railroad- my beliefs, my _charming_ personality... my whole goddamn identity is theirs and, without them, I'm nothing. But this? You and me? That's mine. And no one- not Des, not the Railroad, not a single, living soul- is going to take it from me."

When she doesn't respond, desperation kicks in and he knows he needs to make his next words count, in case they're the last. "I love you," he whispers into her hair, cradling her head against his chest and holding on as though for dear life. "I'm everything wrong with the fucking Commonwealth, and you deserve so much better than me. But I love you, and I need you to love me back because I'm scared and this whole conversation was just me trying and failing to get you to admit that you love me because I'm broken and I can't just ask like a normal person."

Whisper looks up, and the campfire's light catches the tears on her cheeks, making them shimmer like thousands of tiny stars. "And why should I believe that?"

"Because it's the truth."

A single tear slips down her cheek, and he brushes it away with his thumb, which lingers on her skin far longer than it should. She nods, breath hitching as she swallows over the sob that bubbles in her chest; even pain looks good on her and, if it had a colour, it would be bright red, just like blood and her lipstick and the end of the world.

She lets out a deep, shuddering sigh, her lower lip quivering as she covers his hand with her smaller one. And, before he can stop himself, Deacon leans in and kisses her, his body crushing hers against the wall as he cups her face in his hands. She resists halfheartedly, but then surrenders, nearly tearing her blue flag off the wall as she slams the door shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 13 playlist:
> 
> all year round, _elastic heart_ (sia cover)  
>  red, _darkest part_  
>  ruelle, _carry you_ (ft. fleurie)  
>  sam smith, _writing's on the wall_


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I desire that which will destroy me in the end." - Sylvia Plath (and Von, probably)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started writing this story, the plan was simple: 2-3 chapters at most, 99.9% smut. But feels got involved, and I ended up with plot, so. 
> 
> I restarted this chapter twice: both drafts involved her ending it, because she couldn't get past the events of the previous chapter. But it didn't feel right, and here we are. :)

The door to the General's quarters clicks shut. Guns and gear fly everywhere, and Deacon makes short work of Von's armour before crushing her mouth beneath his. His heart ticks a rapid countdown in his chest, like a frag mine about to go off, and the rest of him isn't far behind; it's been a rough day for both of them, and he just wants- no, _needs_ \- to be close to her.

"Wait," she gasps breathlessly, breaking the kiss. "Deacon, stop."

He doesn't want to, of course, but does as she asks. "Am I hurting you?"

"I'm not injured, no."

Whisper always chooses her words carefully, and that she's opted for this particular phrasing isn't lost on him. "But I _did_ hurt you."

She hesitates for a moment. "Tell me," she says, dodging the suggestion as she folds her arms protectively around herself- a move intended to put distance between her body and his. "Everything you just said- telling Des about us, her forcing you to end it... Is any of that true?"

"All of it. Every word. Well, mostly- I've never actually pulled a deathclaw's teeth, but it's a damn good metaphor.

He hopes that his remark will elicit a smile or a laugh from her, but it doesn't. "I'm sure," she answers evasively, her tone all-business as she finally makes eye contact. "Perhaps a better question is, why do I keep letting you do this to me?"

"Because you're secretly a masochist?"

In response, Whisper just shakes her head. "Could be," she replies, her eyes already planning her escape."That, or a glutton for punishment. Maybe both. But what about you? Doesn't getting off on hurting people make you a sadist?"

"Ouch! For starters, I do _not_ get off on hurting you. But yeah, that's the dictionary definition."

"Could've fooled me," she deadpans. "If I'd known this was going to happen, I'd have told Des to shove it and just kept right on walking. But I didn't, and here we are."

Her voice wavers slightly on the last word, which confirms his suspicions. "Knock it off," he huffs, more irritably than he intended. "I get it, you're angry. And, if you're trying to make me feel guilty for mishandling the fuck out of this whole situation, it's working. But, you know what? I think you're mad because you like fixing things, and you can't fix me because what's broken isn't tangible."

"No," she bites back, a barely-audible quiver sneaking past her lips. "It's because I'm trying my damnedest, and you're not. You'd rather stay broken because it's safer."

_No argument there._

As usual, she's spot-on. The anger and grief he's carried with him since Barbara's death are a part of his identity now, and letting go of them is the emotional equivalent to a leap of faith off the top of the Mass Fusion building, because he can't wrap his head around the idea of _not_ being broken. But it's either that, or her- they can't coexist, and the choice should be super-obvious. Except that it's not.

Silence falls over the room. Whisper's wearing her best _I-told you-so_ face, and Deacon wishes that he could just disappear. He knows that he should probably apologize for being a dick and try to repair some of the damage he's done; but he doesn't trust himself to speak, for fear that he'll lose control of his words as soon as he opens his mouth. Still, if he doesn't at least try, he's going to lose her for good.

"You're right, Whisper. I know I screwed up, but I don't want to be broken anymore. I want this, and I want _you_."

A sad smile crosses her face. "I want you too. I wish I didn't, but it is what it is."

When he touches her cheek, she flinches, but doesn't pull away. Instead, she moves closer, her face buried in the crook of his neck as he strokes her hair; this is what safety feels like. And, in that one, shining moment, something clicks in his head: safety isn't the absence of pain. It's two arms and a heartbeat, someone to hold him at his weakest and love him when he forgets to love himself. She's all of those things, and so much more.

He knows he shouldn't kiss her, at least not yet. But nothing else feels right, and so he does it anyway, guiding her jumpsuit down over her shoulders before gathering her in his arms and carrying her over to the bed. Clothes fly everywhere, and his tongue finds hers easily as he positions himself between her thighs, desperate to close what little space remains between them. The tension is palpable now- the air is saturated with it, and he lets out a surprised gasp as she grabs his shoulders and pulls him into her. Her face is beaded with sweat and tears, though it's pleasure, not pain, that moves her. 

"Don't... let go."

Whisper nods, her arms tightening around his waist. "I won't."

He's close now, and the tingling sensation in his stomach intensifies as heat courses through his body like wildfire. Pressure builds in his core, spreads to his arms and legs as the knot in his chest begins to unravel; it's won't be long now, though he hopes he can hold out until Whisper's good and done too. 

"Oh, fuck. I'm going to-"

The second half of the sentence disappears into her hair, and he presses his face into her shoulder to muffle the sound as he comes. It's so intense that his whole body shakes with the force of it, but he keeps going until she does the same- not once, but twice- a few minutes later. She gives a satisfied little sigh as her head hits the pillow, and he collapses against her chest; every fiber of his body twitching as though hit by a shock baton in a rainstorm. 

"I'm sorry," he insists, wondering if she can hear the quiver in his voice. "For being an ass, and for not realizing sooner that letting you walk out of here would have been the end of me. I almost lost you because of it, and I never want to come that close to losing you again." 

Whisper looks up and runs a hand through her curtain of dark, silky hair. "It's all right," she says, her words as warm and comforting as a campfire on a cold day. "I'm not going anywhere. And, if you really mean that, I'll talk to Des. I can't promise anything, but-"

"Hold me."

Of course, she obliges, drapes her arms over his shoulders and plants a chaste, tender peck on his forehead. It's just as much an emotional act as it is a physical one, and it's only when he notices she's crying that he realizes he is too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 14 playlist:
> 
> imminence, _broken love_  
>  labrinth & emeli sandé, _beneath your beautiful_  
>  like a storm, _just save me_  
>  my darkest days, _still worth fighting for_  
>  papa roach & skylar grey, _periscope_  
> 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Von and Des have it out, with some interesting results. Also a segue into more smut... yay!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, it's been a crazy week here! My formerly-broken leg isn't broken anymore and I'm applying to jobs like crazy; going back to work is gonna mean longer breaks between chapters, but we'll see how things go. 
> 
> Sorry for the wait, but here we are. :)

The next day, Von returns to the Old North Church. She's left Deacon and Glory at the Castle, figuring that the two of them can fend for themselves and that she'll be able to make a more convincing case if she talks to Des alone. Statistically speaking, her chances of a successful persuasion are much higher if the others aren't around to interfere, and she needs this to work if she plans on sticking around.

When she enters HQ, Des is waiting for her by the tactical map. "Whisper," she says, glancing up as she takes a drag of her cigarette. "A word, if you don't mind."

Von nods. "I always have time for you, Des."

They head to the back of the crypt and, once she's sure the coast is clear, Des swings the proverbial door wide open. "Good," she declares approvingly, offering Von a cigarette from her pack. "Now, a question: Deacon says that the two of you are... close. He sounded convincing, but he's so committed to his own lies that I don't know what to believe anymore. You, on the other hand, have proven that I can trust you, so I was hoping that you could either confirm or deny these _allegations_?

_So he was telling the truth after all._

Von is careful to keep her expression neutral as she declines the smoke, then looks Des in the eye. "Of course," she says, figuring that she'll play along until she finds out what the end-game is. "He's a good mentor and, more than that, a good friend. Does that help?"

Des side-eyes her suspiciously. "Is that all?"

"If you're asking me that, you obviously don't trust me as much as you claim to. What's really going on here, and why does it merit meddling in your agents' personal lives?"

Des hesitates, and Von knows she's won this round. She always chooses her words carefully and, in opting for this particular phrasing, she's managed to deflect suspicion while avoiding the question entirely. If Des thinks Deacon is lying, she'll be easier to manipulate.

"What you call _meddling_ , I call protecting my own," Des replies defensively. "They're my family, and what kind of leader would I be, if I allowed harm to befall those under my charge?"

In response, Von nods, hoping to appeal to the boss' softer side. "Indeed," she agrees. "You're cautious. I respect that. And, from one leader to another, it's how those in our position _should_ act. But, though aiming to spare your agents any undue suffering is admirable, it's foolish to think that you can remove all possibility. Surely, they're aware of the risk that's involved in dedicating one's life to such a cause."

Des shrugs, but her face softens in an admission of defeat. "I care about them, you know," she confesses, flicking the remains of her cigarette to the ground as she lights another without missing a beat. "Especially since Deacon is... well, he's been through a lot. Carrington and I both swore never to utter a word of it, but I will say this much: what happened to him, and to that poor woman, was a tragedy beyond measure. And, though our work has been a distraction, a repeat of the same would prove disastrous."

Von arches her eyebrows inquisitively. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She already knows where this is going, and she doesn't like it. But it's Des' turn to smile, a bit too smugly for Von's taste. "Interesting," she answers back. "If he's lying, it shouldn't matter. But let's say that I do believe Deacon's story- if it's true, and something unfortunate were to happen to you, I don't think he would survive it. The risk is too great, and that's why I cannot allow such things; he's my best agent and, if we're to have any hope of crushing the Institute, I need both of you _alive_."

"Would it kill you to have a little bit of faith in your so-called best?"

Des shakes her head, but her body language doesn't match the words coming out of her mouth. "Don't get me wrong," she adds. "You've been a great help, Whisper, and the Railroad owes you. But you are a tourist, not one of us; therefore, I don't care whether you're telling the truth or not. But if I ever find out that any action, or inaction, on your part has compromised my best agent, that Castle of yours won't protect you from my wrath."

She flicks her cigarette to the ground as she strides out of the room, and Von stares after her, not really sure what to make of it. As a mother herself, she understands that drive to protect and nurture those she considers family- an instinct so strong that she'd swear she was born for it. But she knows too well that she can't shield them from everything; if that were possible, Nate might still be alive and Shaun would be anywhere but the Institute. The real world just doesn't work that way.

She heads up to the church roof, hoping for a minute to sit down and clear her head. Instead, Deacon is waiting for her- she's not sure how he got here so quickly, but she's not about to ask.

"You lied," he says, by way of greeting, cigarette dangling precariously between his lips as he points at the Stealth Boy still attached to his wrist. "Welcome to the slippery slope."

He pours her a glass of whiskey, which she gratefully accepts. "Not really," she responds, letting the liquor burn her throat as she swallows. "I may have selectively omitted a few important details, but it never hurts to leave a little to the imagination."

She takes another sip of her drink, draining almost half of it in one impressive gulp. Her lipstick leaves a red print on the rim of her glass and, though his eyes are obscured by the dark sunglasses he favours, she's keenly aware of his gaze, which is glued to her mouth like a sniper zeroing in on his target.

"So does that mean that my virtuous little paragon of purity is no longer any of those things?"

Von winks in response. "I don't know. Wanna find out?"

Of course, he nods vigorously, and she barely has time to finish her drink before he grabs her hand and practically drags her down the stairs toward the escape tunnel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 15 playlist:
> 
> all good things, _fight_  
>  fever ray, _if i had a heart_  
>  fireflight, _stay close_  
>  nothing more, _if i were_

**Author's Note:**

> playlist:
> 
> cody frost, _lay all your love on me_ (abba cover)  
>  david usher, _black, black heart_  
>  evanescence, _lose control_  
>  hellyeah, _love falls_  
>  kamelot, _liar, liar/wasteland monarchy_  
>  mortal love, _adoration_  
>  poets of the fall, _carnival of rust_  
>  recovery, _love games_ (lady gaga cover)  
>  tsfh & linea adamsson, _dangerous_  
>  uh huh her, _not a love song_ (acoustic version)  
>  winter in eden, _with intent_


End file.
